Dreams of Kaleidoscopes
by The-Xenocide
Summary: Some colors exist in dreams that are not present in the waking spectrum.


**Dreams of Kaleidoscopes**

A Xenocide Production

**AN: Something I wrote on a rainy day at the office, when I should have been working. The Lazy Man strikes again. Should begin work on third Ino/Naru installment fairly soon, for those of you who care. Have fun guessing who dreams this little dream.**

**Summary: **Some colors exist in dreams that are not present in the waking spectrum.

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He dreams in colors.

He dreams of swirling patterns hidden in layers overlapping each other, dancing and twisting to an unearthly tune.

First is crimson, a sullen overture that twists sinuously in the depths of darkness, seductive and inviting. He is disdainful and somewhat fearful of it, but he finds himself drawn to it, and he cannot help but marvel at the lazy designs it paints before his eyes. Subtly, it weaves lazily around him, designing an arcane snare infused with ancient desires and passions. He cannot give in to its coy wiles, yet he cannot pull himself away either. Crimson is his core, his very being.

He dreams of jade, a playful invitation to warm and earthly things, a hidden melody that prefers to lay dormant in the background. Jade is more complex than crimson, and just as unyielding. He laughs loudly at the mischievous secrets that it whispers in his ears, of roots hidden in rich loam, leaves that wave demurely in the wind, and flowering blooms that radiate serenity. It is a constant companion, and it always reminds him that sometimes you must fell the tree to begin anew with old roots.

Indigo is passive, the small silence in between the notes, and the calm, steady rock in the raging storm. He cannot understand nor accept its cool logic in the face of passion, but he is grateful that it never acts condescending when he comes to realize that indigo is more reliable than jade, cold though it may be. It teaches him to see the beauty in a dripping icicle, the stillness of a calm pond, and a deep, clear sky during autumn's reign. There is peace to be had when he sees that he can obtain the strength of mountains when he meditates next to a small stream.

He dreams of gray, melancholy in its demeanor, quiet and meek in its place in the pattern. Occasionally, he will sit and listen to it reminisce of days past, when the air was brighter, clearer, and much easier to breathe. He listens to it recount times of glory and peace, leaning in closer as it softly mourns the passing of the quiet sunset and feel of grass beneath its feet. Gray is dangerous like crimson, but in another way entirely. It would send him into a spiral of despair, wallowing deep in the mires of memory long gone. And it would not do so out of malice, only a deep abiding grief for what could have been. So he only visits sparingly, if only to remind himself of the importance of remembering.

White is pure, a soothing hand that clears all blemishes, wiping away all tears with a song always on its lips. White sings of simple pleasures, such as the joyful birdsong that wakes him each morning, the piercing whistle of a blade cutting through air, and the bliss that comes with simple conversation amongst friends. He learns of searingly bright pride, easy to offend and quick to anger with a careless word. He learns of loyalty, the sense of laying down your life for your brothers and sisters, if only to be assured of their continued existence. He learns of duty, to friends, to family, and most importantly, to himself. White is his teacher, the stern counterpart to indigo.

The patterns of his dreams are ever shifting, ever changing. They flow stately through his psyche, never quite matching a previous dance, a waltzing symbol of eternity and ordered chaos. Colors blend, patterns change, and melodies are unending.

Through it all he sleeps.

Others dream in jumbled images, a confusing amalgam of reality and fantasy. They can only capture the essence of their own lives, struggling to define themselves as they lie deaf to the passing of the world.

But not he.

He dreams of pure life, the complex weavings of fate, destiny, and all the threads in between. He dreams of rickety shuttles, splintery looms, thin spindles, scarring scissors, and three who set the pattern. He dreams of red clouds on a black background. He dreams of the checkered patterns of a snake. He dreams of red windmills. He dreams of fangs and eyes. He dreams of loneliness and family. He dreams of his home. He dreams of those he would die to protect.

He dreams of kaleidoscopes.

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**AN: Dreams are how we escape the pattern. Dream a little dream this night.**


End file.
